


Full Circle

by Llywela



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 06:03:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llywela/pseuds/Llywela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: Bodie, Doyle and the rest of CI5 belong to those nice people at Mark 1 Productions.<br/>I'm just borrowing them for a short while for my own amusement.<br/>With thanks to Brenda and Jane for their help.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Full Circle

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Bodie, Doyle and the rest of CI5 belong to those nice people at Mark 1 Productions.  
> I'm just borrowing them for a short while for my own amusement.  
> With thanks to Brenda and Jane for their help.

_No matter where we are, we need those friends who trudge across from their neighbourhood to ours._

_\-- Stephen Peters_

  
  
"What am I, a taxi service?"   
  
Brilliant. Doyle's moaning already. Hasn't even got through the door yet. But since I'm the one who wants a favour I decide not to get sucked into an argument, and offer him my most charming smile. "Well, it's not my fault I can't drive, is it?"   
  
Should have known I wouldn't get away with that one.   
  
"Yes it bloody well is!" Doyle comes stomping into the apartment and dumps himself down on the sofa. "You're the one who broke your leg, nobody else did it for you!"   
  
Clearly a different tactic is called for here. "Well? Are we going or shall I call a cab?"   
  
Another mistake.   
  
"Call a cab. I've got better things to do." Doyle looks delighted to have an escape route, and leaps back to his feet, heading for the door. At least he didn't tell me to get the bus. I follow him out as fast as the crutches will allow. Then he takes pity on my attempts to get the door properly locked without dropping the crutches and falling over, and does it for me. I take this as an admission of defeat and head for his car.   
  
Doyle gives in, as I knew he would, and gets into the driver's seat. "Well? Where exactly is it you want to go?"   
  
"Outpatients. Get this cast off at last."   
  
"'Bout time, too."   
  
He's not wrong there. I still can't believe it happened at all. The suspect I'd been chasing had attempted to escape by jumping aboard a bus just as it pulled away from the kerb. Naturally I followed, wanting to get my man. But I mistimed my jump, and the motion of the bus took care of the rest. Doyle, trailing in my wake for once after being KO'd in an earlier tussle, was properly concerned for about as long as it took the doctor to diagnose nothing more sinister than a broken leg. Then he fell about laughing. A fine friend. He stopped laughing, though, when Cowley arrived with a few choice words to say about letting the suspect escape. In fact, he's been less than happy ever since, on the rare occasions he's shown his face, about being stuck with all the paperwork while I've been off.   
  
Which reminds me to wonder what he's been doing that he couldn't spare a bit more time for his poor invalid partner. I risk a quick glance sideways. He looks absolutely knackered, which explains the mood. Well, there's no harm in asking, is there? "So what've you been up to all this time without me around to keep an eye on you?"   
  
He gives a little snort of disgust, but his answer is more vague than I'd really like. "Paperwork. Obbo. Paperwork. Obbo. Just got in off an all-nighter when you called. Boring as hell. It's all your fault."   
  
My fault! I nearly choke at that. "How d'you figure that one out then?"   
  
"Well, you're the one who fell off the bus!"   
  
He is never going to let me live that one down. With a very bad grace I concede that yes, falling off the bus was entirely my own doing, although I fail to see how he can consider that he got the worst of it. After all, I'm the one who's been climbing the walls at home all this time unable even to drive. By the time we get to the hospital, I'm wishing I had called a cab after all. Clambering out of a Capri while negotiating plaster cast and crutches isn't the easiest task, either.   
  
At least Doyle seems to have cheered up, although that's not necessarily an improvement. He gives me a truly wicked smile. "Want me to come in with you? Hold your hand?"   
  
I bite back what I want to say and manage a tight smile. "No, that's quite all right, thank you," I tell him in my best BBC accent.   
  
Doyle then has a serious moment. "How are you getting home after, then? Want me to come pick you up? I've got a few hours spare if you're done by then."   
  
I assure him that I'll sort something out and that he should get home to bed, and make my getaway, as fast as the crutches will allow.

*****

  
It seems to take an age. Hanging around hospital waiting rooms isn't exactly my idea of fun, so by the time they've sorted me out I'm not in the best of moods. However, with the cast off at last, I decide to make the most of my newfound freedom by walking down the road to the pub I remember seeing on the way in.   
  
The funny looks I get from passers-by reminds me of what an odd sight I must be: hobbling along with a cane to lean on and my trouser leg split open to accommodate a plaster cast that's no longer there. Well, let them stare.   
  
Once safely inside the pub, I sink onto a bar stool and at the second attempt manage to attract the barmaid's attention. She turns to me with a friendly smile, and all my cares melt away. But while I'm ordering myself a pint a dreadful sinking feeling comes over me, distracting me from what was turning out to be a very pleasant conversation indeed. As the barmaid turns away to get my drink, I hurriedly check every pocket. Oh bloody hell! No wallet. I can even picture exactly where in my flat it is, but that's not much use to me here. Have I got any money on me at all?   
  
A deeper search of my pockets unearths a handful of coins, and by the time my drink arrives I've managed to scrape together enough cash to pay for it. I then set about counting what I'm left with. Certainly not enough for a taxi back across town, or much else, for that matter. Damn.   
  
I'll find myself a bus. I've got still enough change for that. No problem.   
  
Finishing my pint, I go outside and wander towards the nearest bus stop. A large red shape passes me halfway there and I start to give chase, not wanting to wait for the next one. Only then my wretched leg starts to remind me of what happened the last time I tried chasing a bus, and that I've only just had the cast removed. I'm supposed to be resting my leg, not chasing buses down the street. I give up, angry with myself as I watch the bus sail off around the corner.   
  
I try peering up and down the street. Doesn't look as though there are any banks within easy walking distance and my leg's already aching like mad. Besides, without my wallet and bank details, how could I withdraw any money anyway?   
  
This is no way to spend an afternoon. I decide I'm going to have to swallow my pride, and limp towards the nearest telephone booth, digging in a pocket for a few coins.   
I can hear the phone ringing. No reply. Maybe he's out. No, he was going home to bed, wasn't he? I let it ring a bit longer. Then, at last, I hear the receiver being lifted.   
  
"Yeah?" Doyle sounds half asleep. He was in bed then. He's going to love me for this.   
  
Suddenly wondering what I've let myself in for, I try to sound as pathetic as possible. "Doyle? Do us a favour, mate?"   
  
For a moment I think he's going to hang up on me.   
  
"Why, what've you done now?" he replies at last, sounding suspicious.   
  
"Nothing!" I'm indignant, but quickly remember to wheedle as I explain my predicament.   
  
There's another pause. Then for the second time today he gives in with a big sigh. "OK, on my way."   
  
I head back into the pub, where to my delight the barmaid seems rather pleased to see me again so soon. What was her name again? Barbara? Belinda? Catherine maybe?   
  
Sharon and I are getting along like a house on fire, my injury inspiring just the right amount of sympathy, when we are interrupted.   
  
"Should've known I'd find you in 'ere." My partner doesn't sound thrilled about it, either.   
  
"Ah. My chauffeur." I decide to ignore his mood in the hope that it'll go away.   
  
He gives me an exasperated look, and then says, "well? Are you going to buy me a pint, or do you want to walk home?"   
  
I roll my eyes in disbelief at his short memory. "No money, remember?"   
  
"Yeah, that'd be right." You'd think listening to him that I'd done it on purpose. "Come on, let's go. Say goodbye to your friend."   
  
"Yes, dad," I fling at his back with a roll of my eyes as he stalks out again. Then, when I turn to bid farewell to Sharon, she's already busy with another customer. Another missed opportunity. What a way to spend a day.

*****

  
Doyle has already got the engine running by the time I get to the car. He's yawning away and looks even more crumpled than usual, if that's possible, those unruly curls of his standing right up on end.   
  
"Disturb your beauty sleep, did I?" I toss lightly at him as I slam the car door shut.   
  
"Yeah, you did, actually," he admits, glancing both ways before pulling out.   
  
"Well, you did offer to come pick me up." I remind him.   
  
"Yeah, and you turned me down."   
  
"Yeah, well." I have no answer for that. Other than, "thanks, appreciate it."   
  
During the silence that follows, I find myself idly gazing out of the window contemplating the way some people park their cars. It's amazing some of them ever pass their driving tests; the angles they achieve with their cars are quite something.   
  
Then I realise that Doyle is speaking to me again. "So what'd the quack have to say, then?"   
  
"What? When?" I drag my attention away from one particularly fine example of 'creative parking' and turn back to Doyle.   
  
He gives me another of those looks, like he's wondering what planet I landed here from. "The doctor. This morning. About when you're going to stop lazing around and get back to some real work?"   
  
Lazing around? I firmly tell myself not to get drawn on that. "Be back behind a desk in no time now, few more days. Active duty as soon as the leg's strong enough."   
  
"'Bout time as well. Been skiving long enough already."   
  
Skiving? I've been going slowly insane, and he calls it skiving?   
  
I catch Doyle glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, and it occurs to me that he's deliberately winding me up. Presumably for the sheer masochistic joy of seeing how I react.   
  
I'm not falling for that.   
  
I spend the rest of the journey stubbornly refusing to rise to his jibes. Annoyingly, he seems to find that amusing as well. I remind myself that I don't want to walk home.   
  
Once we reach my apartment I head straight for the lounge and collapse onto the sofa. Doyle follows me in uninvited and wanders into the kitchen where he appropriates my fridge, telling me that I owe him a drink.   
  
I can't help grinning at that and tell him to help himself and bring one for me too. After all, he didn't have to come and get me. Beer's about all he'll find in there though. Maybe, if I'm lucky, he'll get hungry and provide me with some food.

*****

  
With the cast off at last it doesn't take much longer to get the leg back into shape. Then, after weeks at home watching daytime TV, and longer than I care to remember stuck behind a desk counting paperclips, I'm finally cleared for active duty.   
  
I feel like cheering as I walk into HQ.   
  
After seeing Cowley, I head for the rest room and find Doyle ensconced within, head bent over a newspaper, back to the open door. He hasn't heard me approach and I can't resist the temptation to creep up behind him. "Fancy finding you here." I manage to speak right into his ear and his reaction almost makes the weeks stuck at home seem worthwhile. After all, it's not often I can sneak up on him like that, although he does it to me on a depressingly regular basis.   
  
Surprisingly, he lets me get away with it rather more easily than I'd have expected. He's in an unusually good mood, for once. Pleased to have me back, perhaps? Obviously, my company is far preferable to whoever he's been stuck with in my absence.   
  
Barely time for the first cuppa of the day, and then Doyle and I are sent to pull in a youngster by the name of Andy Jacobs, who's got in over his head with a gang of dealers and could provide us with some valuable information. It's not the most thrilling of assignments: Cowley's way of easing me gently back into the action, perhaps? Whatever, I'm glad to be getting out there; it's been far too long.   
  
Doyle goes up to the front door to ring the bell, while I wander around the side in case the kid tries doing a runner that way. I've not even got halfway before I hear a shout from Doyle, and have to sprint back the way I've just come.   
  
By the time I get back to the front, Doyle is halfway down the road in pursuit of young Andy. I curse to myself a bit as I set off after them. So much for easing me in gently!   
  
I'm still trailing by quite a bit when Andy passes a collection of dustbins, and flings a few of them over. Doyle has almost caught up with him and can't get out of the way in time, tripping over the falling obstacles in quite spectacular fashion. That's the end of his good mood, then.   
  
Being further behind I have no trouble sidestepping the instant obstacle course, and keep up the pursuit. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Doyle starting to pick himself up, and know that he's OK. Good, that means I can concentrate on catching up with Andy before he has a chance to warn his dealer mates to go to ground.   
  
God, I'm sure when the doctor cleared me for active duty, running a marathon wasn't quite what he had in mind.   
  
Ahead of me, Andy skids around a corner. Panting after him, I round the corner myself and realise that my luck is in. He's hit a busy shopping area and the crowds around are slowing him down. I weave my way past mothers with prams and grannies with walking sticks, gaining on him all the time. Then my heart sinks as I see him leap aboard a big red London bus.   
  
Not again! I can't believe this -- my first day back and it happens again. What are the chances of that, eh?   
  
I gather up all my nerves as I race after him, hand outstretched for the bar as the bus starts to pull off. I make the leap...   
  
... and land safely. Oh, the relief.   
  
I allow myself a second or two of self-congratulations while I catch my breath. Then, waving my ID in the face of the conductor in lieu of payment, I heave myself up the stairs. Andy isn't hard to spot, trying without success to hide under the back seat.   
  
I haul him out and cuff him, my most menacing smile securely in place.   
  
"You're nicked, son."   
  
Now, to work out where we're going so I can get Doyle to come pick us up.

*****

  
Alighting at the next stop with young Andy in tow, his hands securely cuffed behind his back, I'm uncomfortably aware that every eye on the bus is fixed on us. I need to get him back to HQ quickly, before we draw any more attention to ourselves.   
  
Once on solid ground again, I find a relatively secluded corner to drag my squirming prisoner over to, glaring fiercely at curious passers-by. Then, holding Andy firmly in one hand, I use the other to fish my R/T out of my pocket.   
  
"Four-five from three-seven." I wait a moment and when there's no response try again. "Four-five from three-seven. Four-five? Come on Doyle, where've you got to?"   
  
I'm just starting to worry when I get a response. "Yeah, I'm here."   
  
"Oh there you are, glad you could join us," I tell him. "Look, mate, I've got young Andy here with me, and I know Mr Cowley is looking forward to having a nice friendly chat with him, so if you could see your way to picking us up we can all go back to HQ and..."   
  
Doyle cuts me off before I can finish. "Sorry, no can do."   
  
I feel my jaw drop and can only respond, "eh?"   
  
As Doyle replies I become aware of odd noises in the background, traffic and people talking. "You're going to have to call HQ for someone to come pick you up," he explains. "And then when you've done that you can come back and collect my car for me."   
  
"Now why on earth would I want to do that?" I protest. "What's going on?"   
  
A long, embarrassed pause hangs in the air before he replies. "Gone and busted my bloody ankle, haven't I. I'm in the ambulance now."   
  
For a moment I'm not sure I've heard properly. Then the corners of my mouth start to twitch uncontrollably as I search for an appropriate reply. "So while I've been risking life and limb chasing suspects halfway around London, you broke your ankle falling over a dustbin?"   
  
An image of Cowley's face when he hears about this drifts across my mind and I have to smother the urge to laugh out loud.   
  
"Yeah, Bodie, don't start." Doyle sounds pretty pissed off and I realise I'd better watch my step here.   
  
"Never mind, sunshine," I tell him, cheerfully. "Look on the bright side."   
  
"What bright side?" he growls back.   
  
"Least now you'll be able to put your feet up for a bit."   
  
I sign off quickly and call into HQ for a lift, but while we're waiting for it to arrive, an awful thought occurs to me. With Doyle laid up, three guesses who's going to have to write up the report.   
  
Yeah, welcome back, Bodie!   
  


 

~end~

  
  
written September 2002


End file.
